


Champagne

by Hopetohell



Category: The Cold Light of Day (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Blood, Fingering, Gunshot Wounds, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut, Spit Kink, Stitches, wound treatment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29332239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: It’s a romantic getaway with Will, what could  go wrong?Plenty of things, apparently.
Relationships: Will Shaw/Reader
Kudos: 1





	Champagne

Listen. Will’s pretty as hell and he’s gonna fuckin die because he has no idea how to do this: how to hold himself in reserve, how to keep back that little lit-match part of him. He wavers closer and closer to the edge and soon even Sy won’t be able to hold him back. And it’s not because he’s a bad guy, at least as far as folks in the business go. But Papa Shaw bit it before Will was ready to take the lead, and now here he is. Young, impetuous, sweet as pie, but Will’s got a nasty edge to his temper. Fuck him over once and he will fold; fuck him over twice and he will burn the world to bring you down. 

If he survives the first time. 

He’s balls-deep in you when it happens; he said _got a thing in Boston, wanna come?_ and of course you did; it’s cold as hell but it’s so damn pretty. All that brickwork, all that grey water, and the nicest hotel you’ve stayed at in a long time. You know the type: champagne and strawberries for Will to lick out of your navel, acres of white linen, the whole nine yards. A romantic getaway, except for whatever he gets up to when he disappears in the evenings, rolling up after midnight with raw knuckles and a manic gleam in his eye. 

But anyway. 

He’s balls-deep with your legs around his waist and Christ, he’s snarling and spitting 

_(Bad meeting?_

_Don’t wanna talk about it. Get on your knees)_

And if your throat’s too hoarse with cock to do much moaning it doesn’t matter anyway, not with how he hooks his fingers into your mouth, dribbling champagne between your lips, only to follow with a savage grin and a wad of spit, still acrid with the brut on his tongue. It matches what he left in your cunt earlier, before he fucked in hard and wild, driving spittle up inside you, up into your fucking lungs it seems like. 

But anyway. None of this is the point. 

The point is that when he’s just about to come, when his balls are drawn up tight and he’s moving wild and patternless in you, there’s a loud noise and a spray of blood and there’s Will with a wound carved deep in his bicep; the blood gets you right between his fingers in your mouth, falling hot on your tongue and there’s that blood and spit and champagne taste all mingled together sudden and heady and _fuck, what the fuck, someone’s shooting at us_

_(Shooting at you, Will, what did you do?)_

and nothing makes much sense for a little while; Sy bursts in from the next room with a _we are leaving fucking **now**_ and then a wild ride with Will groaning in the back seat and bleeding all over the damn place. And there’s a safe house at least, and a clear route to it, eventually; Will wants you to sew his wound ostensibly because he cannot trust a doctor here, but really he wants the bite of the needle in your hand, wants the tug and pull of silk thread while he watches you with heavy eyes and 

_Are you getting off on this?_

_Little bit. Is that a problem?_

_No, it’s just. You’re hurt. Don’t want to make it worse._

So he says _ride me, then_ and _do you think my spit is still inside you? You think if I fucked you hard enough, it’d grind right into your cells and mark you out as mine forever?_

_Can’t you just buy a ring like a normal person?_

And there’s a long moment when the both of you just stare because _did you just?_

_So what if I did?_

And he jerks his hips upward to seat himself fully in you; there’s that aching stretch as he makes room for himself, and that little clench as you remember what he said; he hisses _mine_ as he’s fisting his hands into the sheets to keep his arm still, fingers twitching with the need to hold. _Mine_ as you roll your hips sinuous and filthy, holding him as deep as he can get, _mine forever_ just before he screws his eyes shut and groans, coming hard in deep and pulsing waves. 

And maybe he’s a bottled tempest but Will knows better than to leave you hanging; he gets you up and over his good hand so he can finger you with all his come dripping sticky down his wrist; his thumb is heavy on your clit and his eyes are drooping with exhaustion even as he says _hell, you’d let me fuck you bloody, doll. You give me everything, just because I want it,_ the words winding around your breathy moans and the filthy wet sound of his hand in you. 

It’s dirty and it’s perfect, chaotic and rough like him; he doesn’t say _come for me_ because he doesn’t have to, because he knows all he has to do is give you what you need and you’ll take it. And in the end you collapse with his hand sticky on your thigh; soon it’ll be time for planning and regrouping but for now you only lie there and try to catch your breath. There’s the sound of the house settling, of water in the pipes, all the sounds of an unassuming old house. 

And Sy from the next room, aggravated: _you know I can hear you, right? Next time y’all want to fuck, at least shut the door._ And you’d say something back, but the bed is warm and deep; Will is drowsing already and he looks so young, so soft; like this, you could imagine him in some other life, perhaps a life where the worst he has to worry about is getting to his train on time.  
_  
(If you stick with me, it’ll only get ugly._

_Yeah, I know. But it’ll be our ugly.)_


End file.
